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July's Biatch
I hate
July. Next year, I plan to not come out from under my bed
for the entire month. Even then, something unpleasant will happen. And
it will probably involve the big scary dust dinos that live under
there.
Last July, I gave birth to the Boy, who just turned one and is all a
one-year old boy should be. He cruises. He babbles. He smashes. He is a
delight and, frankly, the only good thing that has ever emerged from
the month. Since I had my boy joy at the end of July, the first three weeks were
full of vast uncomfortableness. Compared to Julys past, however, that
was but a minor inconvenience. I’d actually begun to believe that my
July curse had been lifted, that a successful pregnancy and low-key
post-partum period would mark a turning point.
How wrong I was. That bitch July has now trained her evil stare on my children. I’d like
to make some grand statement about that not being allowed to continue
because I will fling my body in front of all who dare to cross my kids.
While that is true, it only works in the movies. July will fuck with
them regardless of how fiercely I defend them. The onslaught started mildly, with a case of roseola for the Boy. It’s
unpleasant, certainly, but mostly non-life threatening. A week later,
he picked up the Coxsackie virus, which was marked by incredibly
painful lesions in his mouth. Again, mostly non-life threatening, but
the screaming and not-sleeping was wearing on us all. His plagues were only a lagniappe to an otherwise dreadful month. At
her four-year well-kid check-up, the Diva and her belly were a topic of
much speculation. She’s always had a big toddler tummy but we’d figured
it should have melted away by now. Instead, it’s getting bigger. And
she seems to have stopped growing. And has “Offensive Flatus,” which is
about as delicately as I can put it. Even the cats flee the room, if
that gives you any indication. I figured that the pediatrician would take a wait-and-see approach.
Instead, blood was drawn. It indicated that it is very likely that she
has Celiac Disease, which is the condition where your body can’t digest
gluten and it actively damages your small intestine. And gluten, like
Elvis, is everywhere.
It’s a shock to have your kid go from normal-if-funny-shaped to having
a chronic condition, one that will require daily management and
intrusive life changes. Of all the chronic conditions to have, this is
one of the better ones, granted. But I’d rather she’d not have it at
all or, if that can’t be arranged, that it could be given to me,
instead. As much as I like cake, I’d gladly give it up for the rest of
my life if it meant that my kid didn’t have to deal with any of this.
I don’t have the slightest idea how parents of kids with fatal diseases
deal. My heart goes out to you, which is cold comfort, I know.
With celiac, the blood test is merely the first step to confirming a
diagnosis. What then followed is an hour-each-way trip to our nearest
Big City to see a Pediatric Gastroenterologist for a consult. While our
hip and happening small town has plenty of doctors, dentists and hair
stylists, exotic specialties require that you jump in the car. The
PGENT Scagnelli, whose last name I adore because it conjures images of
a muppet-like sea creature, made it clear that we’d have to do a biopsy
of the Diva’s small intestine. The small intestine isn’t easy to get to even in small people. Thanks
to the wonders of mini cameras, it’s not as invasive as it could be --
but it still requires sedation. I hope to never, ever have to have one
of my kids sedated again. If you can, July, throw me that bone.
The day of the biopsy dawned hot. We made the hour drive down and sat
for another hour, simply because hospitals get a sadistic glee from
making you wait. The reception room was full of folks over 60 – some
well over – and the Diva, who kept spinning like a top so that she
could get her skirt to flare out, was still ticked at us for not
letting her eat. The hospital staff couldn’t have been nicer, which seems to be a
default for hospital staff. Dennis, our nurse, had a great rapport with
the Diva. Our PGENT entertained the Diva with the endoscope, showing
her what the inside of her ear looked like, among other things. For the
Diva, the worst part was the IV and even that wasn’t a huge deal.
For me, the worst part was when we left the room as the sedatives took
her away. She was still conscious enough to call out a plaintive
“Mommy” as we left. A big fist squeezed my heart. Ten minutes later, Scagnelli fetched us from the waiting area and
brought us to her. She was just coming up out of the drugs. He warned
us that one of them – Versed – makes kids cry for a good half-hour
afterwards. And it did. She was so pale and drooling and crying, the
cry of a kid who is hopeless and alone. We went back to a recovery room, where Dennis turned out the light and
peeled off as much as the monitoring equipment that he could. The Diva
whimpered and sobbed. My husband stroked her forehead. I climbed into
bed next to her. We were like that in the dark for what felt like
forever, while sobs wrenched out of her teeny frame. “Why am I so dizzy, Mommy?” she asked, between bouts of tears. “Why
does my voice sound so weird?” We’d explain, then the crying would ramp back up. Dennis, bless him, came in and showed us the room’s TV, which was the
perfect size for a four-year old and, even better, had the Disney Channel.
Three seconds into the Doodlebops and her tears stopped. What mommy
can’t make better, dancers in day-glo make-up certainly can. It’s nice
to know where you stand in your kid’s universe. Flash forward a couple of weeks and we now have a confirmed diagnoses of
celiac. With it, Scagnelli also gave me four
full-color pictures of the Diva’s digestive tract. I’ll put them in the
album next to her first sonogram, I guess, or turn them into Christmas
cards. A lifetime of label-reading and food-policing awaits us all. I
can’t wait. As for July, I have surrendered officially. I never thought National
Ice Cream month could be so cruel.
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About the Author:
Adrienne Martini has been a theatre technician, apprentice
massage therapist, bookstore bookkeeper and pizza joint waitress. Eventually,
someone started paying her for her words and an editorial mercenary was
born. She has written theatre reviews and features for the Austin
Chronicle, blurbs about tofurkey and bottled water for Cooking Light and
a piece about knitting summer camp for Interweave Knits. She is
a former editor for Knoxville, Tennessee's Metro Pulse and
recently picked up an AAN award for feature writing. In July 2006, her first
book Hillbilly Gothic: A Memoir of Madness and Motherhood will be
published. During the day, she fields freelance gigs and crams
knowledge into the heads of college students in Upstate New York. At all
hours, she is mom to Maddy and Cory, and wife to Scott.
